


Provenance

by Morbane



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Monstrous Regiment - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Book: Monstrous Regiment, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Gen, shaping the narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 07:49:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17679371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbane/pseuds/Morbane
Summary: Jackrum may have chosen to retire, but his legacy has its own ideas.





	Provenance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reconditarmonia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reconditarmonia/gifts).



"Is this about that little book of mine again, then, Perks," Jackrum said. It wasn't a question. His inflection failed to rise, lacking the impetus, much in the way a flatbread (once an abomination unto Nuggan, and now very popular, especially with a kind of pumpkin paste, especially in the north) lacked the impetus to turn into a loaf.

"You could say so, sarge," Polly said.

This was a traditional exchange between them by now, and following the ritual, Jackrum had waited until his second beer - on Polly - to ask it.

This was the point at which Polly would bring out her copy of the book in question, and point to an entry, and enquire as to the meaning of the notation, and often - in the cases she considered successful - tease out a story, even if not one that pertained to the cryptic note she had pointed to. The notes had been in Jackrum's hand; the book was now in Polly's hands to do with what she would. But the contents were useless if misinterpreted, and there were many notes ("Gussom? Pig") that led themselves to misinterpretation.

When Polly had first used a lull in her career to come to Spitz and trade yarns with her old sarge, clarifying the book's notes had been something of an excuse. She'd realised early that there was more to the book than having it. You needed plausibility to wield secrets as a weapon. You needed context. Leverage, Polly had discovered, was very much about where the person wielding it _stood_. And secrets were shots that could only be fired once. Polly had spent longer than she'd expected to, considering her aim.

Polly brought out the book now, and did not open it.

Jackrum took a copious swig of his beer, and stared in a meaningful fashion into the empty mug.

Polly sipped her own - this was good beer. The "Gentleman's Retreat" had everything it should on tap, including some liquors which were rather unexpected this far from Borogravia's borders. Polly wasn't Jackrum's only regular visitor, and for her part, she brought questions and gossip, but she paid her way in drinks (at full price) for the establishment's owner. 

She signalled to the barkeep, indicating Jackrum. "Ah, Sarge. I did have a question. An idle concern." She paused, almost as much out of genuine reluctance as to spin out her pitch. "Back in the capital, I keep getting asked about you."

Jackrum put his mug down to be refilled with slightly more force than Polly would have expected.

"It's these modern journalists," Polly said. The dissemination of items of interest to the populace - and Borogravia's fledgling efforts to follow in Ankh-Morpork's wake - had been a trend ever since her first campaign, so it felt neither new nor modern to her now, but the phrase still came easily to her. "They're bored since our treaty with Auspiria, and it happens to have been a decade since the treaty with Zlobenia -"

"Broken twice," Jackrum growled.

Perks shrugged, and noted that Jackrum was also well-supplied with the fruits of journalism.

"- so they've started a trend of _national literature_. I think," a pause again, but Jackrum's hand was twitching irritably towards his pocket, and she decided it wasn't too theatric, "there's a biography in the offing."

She finished her sentence staring straight into Jackrum's face, across which genuine horror flashed.

"Hagiography, even," Polly said, and sipped.

Jackrum visibly pulled himself together. "I've never cared much for what people said of me, Perks, you know that."

"Oh, not when it's bad," Polly said easily. "Nothing wrong with a reputation. But there are stories told of you that strike terror in a listener's heart - and not for the right reasons. I said to myself, old Sarge isn't going to want it in the record that he rescued puppies and kittens and put out forest fires while simultaneously damming rivers. The Battle of Gretz wasn't particularly glorious, was it? Nor was Lipping. I mean, I wouldn't know. I wasn't there. I only know what's said.

"And then there's the other thing," Polly added. "I was home with Shufti and my brother over the winter, and in the back of the bar I heard someone making a few bold claims. Claims that he was you. And I thought, Sarge, I could put the record straight very quickly, but no one believed him, so I needn't have bothered. Still."

Jackrum narrowed his eyes at her.

"See, you weren't the first Jackrum," Polly said, and saying something like that out loud was treacherous enough that she rushed past it, losing her storytelling rhythm, "so I reckon you shouldn't be the last. And I wondered if there's someone I should tap, just a little bit of help, to take up the mantle, as it were. Someone who, if they said, _that was me, at Sheep's Drift_ , might be believed. Especially if they turned up with an old bit of pillage that someone else had conveniently put in their way. Maybe, not even someone, but someones. There are some records that ought to be set straight, and maybe some... that are better off crooked."

She tapped the book. Jackrum unwillingly followed her finger.

"Dinah, I was thinking," she said casually. "You'll remember her. Or maybe Emily. Had a couple chances to prove herself now, and ruined them both spectacularly - whichever way she goes out, she'll go with a bang. Or both of them. Or Frederica."

"The new Jackrum?"

"One of many," Polly suggested. "Cousin, uncle, niece. I'm just saying - the real story belongs to those who were there." She lifted her hand off the book. "Might beat back those biographers, is all I thought."

She'd met a hopeful writer on the road just six days ago, and shared a carriage. After making non-committal noises in response to the story of his life and ambitions, she'd changed her plans and parted ways with him at Holz. The time she wasted there had been precious to her, but not as valuable as ensuring that she arrived in the man's wake, her point made for her by his unwelcome - and curtailed - visit.

She waited.

Jackrum reached out and pulled the book towards him.

"Someone steady," he said.

"Right, Sarge."

"Someone who can keep their mouth shut as well as flapping it."

"Right, Sarge."

Polly relaxed and signalled for a fourth round of drinks.

One saint in her lifetime was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Dear my recipient, thanks for your prompts! I hope this is an interesting possibility to consider even though Jackrum's choices about his legend might go all kinds of different ways.
> 
> Thanks to 20thcenturyvole for beta suggestions!
> 
> [sadly, I could not work this into a coherent title pun, but Cynthia Voigt's 'Jackaroo' was also an influence.]


End file.
